


Hyperdontia

by Verse



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Character Study, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verse/pseuds/Verse
Summary: The funny thing about Holy Grail Wars is that there are quite a lot of loopholes people overlook. Like the fact the servant doesn't have to be the one fighting. Or the fact that the servant isn't, in any way, shape, or form, obligated to tell their Master what a Holy Grail War is.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	Hyperdontia

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> Holy Grail War where Guda is their summoner's weird back-alley encounter one night, then ghosts them for two days straight without an explanation and then seamlessly sets themselves up in the next-door apartment. They never explain what a holy grail is, and they're human-passing if they take sufficient precautions, and five months in it's just them and one enemy servant left. Guda goes drinking with them every Tuesday.

The first time you meet your new neighbor, you almost have a heart attack.

“Ma’am! Do you need any help with that?”

Face mask, sunglasses, leather gloves. They stand hover above you, and it dawns on you that you’re about to get mugged.

“No, no, it’s fine.” You steel your spine and straighten your back- and immediately wince. Old age has not been kind to you. “I’m fine. Really.”

The youth chuckles- they sound genuinely amused. Since you can barely see their face at all, you can’t read any of their emotions. It’s unnerving. “Don’t be silly, ma’am.” They take hold of the heaviest of your grocery bags. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you there.”

And you can’t really do anything but agree, can you? Ah, it has been a good life, at least. You suppose there are worse ways to go than…

… actually guided home by a yakuza? Who bids you goodbye and just leaves?

… Wait, they were being _honest_ with the offer to help?

* * *

The youth, you learn quickly (for there is no better intel than old lady gossip) goes by Ritsuka Fujimaru, is probably not part of any yakuza group, and works part-time at the okonomiyaki place down the street.

Their apartment is also two rooms away from yours, which is why you keep running into them.

“Ma’am!” They wave at you excitedly. Their face is still covered. Apparently, they’re just _that_ allergic to showing any important patch of skin. “You shouldn’t stay around these parts, ma’am. Haven’t you heard? A pipeline exploded yesterday.”

Huh, really? There has been a lot of these kind of accidents lately. You didn’t know another one exploded in the area.

This city really needs to get it together. You remember another serie of accidents like this when you were a kid. You’d think in sixty years infrastructure would get _better._

“Ma’am! Ah, it’s good to see you sticking to safe paths.”

“Ma’am! Ah, you really ought to check the news! The next street is closed up! It shouldn’t last long, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Ma’am! Let’s walk home together! I just finished my shift. Are you coming back from the market?”

“Ma’am! This looks heavy, do you need help? Oh, this is new! How do you cook that?”

* * *

One day, you go out, and you don’t see them. You don’t bat an eye.

The next day, they’re still not here. It’s not the first time that happens.

The next day, still no Fujimaru. Now this is a little weird.

The next day, they’re still absent. You’re getting worried.

“They’re on sick leave.” The okonomiyaki place tells you. “They should be back by tomorrow.”

Sick?

You frown. They’re a weird folk, but you’ve grown to like the youngster. Do they even know how to take care of themself? You remember when _you_ were just getting started into adulthood and _boy_ that wasn’t pretty.

So, you walk determinedly to the youth’s apartment, and knock.

At first there is silence. Then a ruffled sound. Then, a voice. “One moment!”

So you wait.

… quite some time.

After what seems like an eternity, but most likely was only a minute, the door opens up. “Hi ma’am! What brings you here?” And you can’t help but flinch.

They look the same as usual. Sunglasses, face mask, and gloves. The same, no sicker, no healthier.

Three scars like slashes come across their right eye.

They have a sheepish laugh. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t have time to put on my make-up.”

Make-up? To cover the scars?

You look them over. Sunglasses, face mask, gloves. At first you’d assumed they were some kind of delinquent. At first you’d assumed they didn’t want to be recognized.

_Ah, sorry. I didn’t have time to put on my make-up._

Ah.

You think you understand now.

“… Would you like to have dinner with me?” Originally, you wanted to bring them some chicken soup and be done with it, but what little of their apartment you can see behind them seems… unfit to host people. You wonder how _they_ manage to live in it. It’s just… so _full_. Toys and tools and papers as if they could barely focus on one task at once. Where did they even fit their bed?

“Ah.” They click their tongue. “That’s very nice, ma’am, but I don’t think-”

“I’ll look the other way while you eat.” You say. “If you really don’t want me to see your face.”

They stay silent. For a few seconds, you can’t even hear them _breathe._

“…Okay.”

* * *

It starts with chicken soup on a sick day. Then it turns into a small chat every two week. Then a meal every week. 

After two months, you’ve gotten into the habit of hosting Fujimaru over twice a week.

They’re comfortable enough to remove their sunglasses when you’re the only one here, now. One of their eye is blank. The other one rarely ever focuses on you when you speak to them.

Weirdly enough, their eye is about the _least_ interesting thing about Fujimaru.

“And there! That’s how you make mocassins.” They’re beaming. You can’t see their mouth, but you’re sure they’re smiling. “Friend of mine taught me how to make these.”

“You seem to have a lot of odd friends.” 

“Oh, definitely. But that’s just how life is, y’know?”

Somehow, you get the feeling that their life isn’t exactly what you’d call “average.”

* * *

It takes another month for them to take off the face mask.

… Huh.

“Hyperdontia.” That’s the only explanation they give you. You don’t press them. Not about their teeth, not about their eye, not about their soot-like skin under their gloves. From what you’ve seen, it’s a _miracle_ that Fujimaru ended up somewhat functional despite whatever stacked that many scars on them.

“Say, ma’am,” they ask between two bites of food, “if you could have any wish fulfilled, what would you want?”

“A wish?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m a little old to believe in genies, don’t you think?”

“Humor me.” They set their chin on their palm. “Any wish at all. What would you wish for?”

Any wish…

A few months back, you’d probably have answered ‘a friend,’ or something cheesy like that. Life can be… lonely, when one is as old as you, with no kid or nephew to speak of.

But now, well…

“… no, I can’t think of anything. I’m good.”

They blink. Evidently, they were not expecting that answer.

“… You’re a good person, you know that?”

Their teeth are long and sharp. Somehow, it doesn’t stop their smile from being incredibly sweet.

* * *

Fujimaru has a friend.

Well, multiple, obviously. Fujimaru looks kind of scary at first, but give them the occasion to chat you up, and they will _not_ let you leave unfriended. But what you mean by that is that Fujimaru has a _friend._

“I saw Caster the other day!” They always look giddy talking about Caster. You’re hesitant to call it puppy love, but evidently, this person means a lot to them. 

Here’s what you know about Caster:

\- They act like an old man

\- They look young enough that Fujimaru has to be the one to buy alcohol when they hang out

\- They’ve got Opinion on writing

“So, you write too, Fujimaru?” You ask, after the third time they retell you about some writing discourse or another.

“Mh? Oh, yeah. sometimes.” They rub the back of their neck. “Well, not really. There’s just this one thing I’ve been writing over and over again, so.”

(They do that a lot. Repetitive things, you mean. Sometimes, they repeat something they’ve just told you. Sometimes, they do the same action twice, thrice in a row, as if they’d forgotten they’d already done it.)

(The scars on their face looks deep. You think they might have some mild brain damage, but again, this isn’t your place to ask.)

“What is it about?” You ask, because you’re genuinely interested.

They look down, and seem suddenly very interested in scratching the underneath of their nails.

“… It’s a little silly.” They finally say. “I had this friend, you see.”

You nod. Do go on. For all the time you’ve spent with Fujimaru, you know surprisingly little about their past.

“He was great. Incredible! He knew _so_ much. And he was kind! And resourceful. He could always get someone out of a bind even when himself had next to nothing to work with. I owe him a lot.”

“He sounds pretty great.”

They nod excitedly. “That’s who I’m writing about. My friend.” They pause, for a second, as if unsure if they should continue. When they speak again, their voice is a little lower, as if telling a secret.

“There is power in stories, you know? If it’s written down, then it’s real. In a way. Not real _real._ But real in a way that matters. Once a story is weaved, you can’t unmake it. Even if no one knows of it. Even if it gets burned down afterwards. There is _power_ in stories.”

It’s a good thing that they don’t ask you if you’ve understood, because you certainly hadn’t. But they go on.

“That’s what I’m writing about. My friend. I’m writing a story about him. Some meaningless slice of life thing. A regular day at work. Getting coffee in the morning. Saying hi to his daughter. Feeling the wind on his face. That’s what I’m writing. Normal life stuff.”

They tilt their head back, look at your roof.

“… It’s the least I can give to him. It’s the only thing I can give to him. A story in which he lives.”

* * *

It’s been six months since you’ve met Fujimaru, when they ask you with the utmost seriousness: “Do you believe in lucky charms?”

“As much as the next person.” You shrug. It’s very much a maybe maybe not to you. You don’t care all that much.

“Okay. That’s good.” Fujimaru smiles. It’s weird, how used you’ve become to these teeth. How comforting the sight of scars can become. “See, there’s this one lucky charm I wanted to give you. Something of a spell if you ever need me and I’m not here.”

? Well, why not. It wouldn’t be the strangest of Fujimaru’s quirks.

“Okay, listen up. Don’t repeat what I’m going to say. You can only say it one day where you really mean it, okay?” They lean towards you and cup their hands around your ear. Their breath is almost anormaly warm. “It goes something like this. _By the power of my Command Spell, I ask of you…”_

**Author's Note:**

> Grandma didn't notice her Command Spell tattoo because it's on her lower back and most people don't check it in the mirror.


End file.
